


The Way To Mycroft's Heart

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, BAMF Anthea (Sherlock), Crack Treated Seriously, Dark Sherlock Holmes, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Murder, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Sibling Incest, Sorry Not Sorry, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:27:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22463341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Sherlock is desperate. He wants Mycroft so badly but big brother keeps refusing him. But then someone unexpected delivers him just the chance...
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 29
Kudos: 102





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A totally self-indulgent fic, sparked by the song "The Way To Your Heart" by Soulsister.

“Oh. Thank you.” Mycroft took the bouquet of flowers as if he had never seen anything like this. Probably he hadn't. Not personally, at least.

“You're welcome,” breathed Sherlock. Now. Now it would happen! “Can I come in?” His entire body was tingling with want. Mycroft's next words were like a cold shower though.

The older brother shook his head. “I'm busy, Sherlock. And as I told you before, about two- or three-hundred times in the past few weeks: this is a bad idea. Not going to happen. We are brothers. It is forbidden, illegal and simply out of the question. If you excuse me now…”

Sherlock glowered at him, then he ripped the roses out of Mycroft's hand. His brother didn’t like them. He would probably throw them away. Graham and his silly ideas!

_'What can I give someone I like?’ he had asked him. 'Really, really like?'_

_Lestrade had smiled. ‘Flowers are always right.’_

Well, no. Obviously not… Sherlock walked away from his brother's house, his shoulders hanging. Before he hailed a cab, he gave the twenty-pound-bouquet to an old woman. She gasped and thanked him, and if he had let her, she would have certainly embraced him. Unlike his ungrateful older brother, cold fish that he was. Sexy, hot, smart, desirable man that he was… Sherlock wanted him so badly. And he would find a way!

°°°

“Thank you, Sherlock. They look tasty. But you shouldn’t have done that.”

“You hate them,” Sherlock said darkly, staring at the box of chocolates he had brought his brother.

“Not at all! I’m… touched. But my answer is still ‘no’.”

“I didn’t even ask for anything!” Sherlock flared.

Mycroft nodded. “That’s true. So… Why...”

“Fuck me, brother!”

Mycroft sighed. “No. Really, please, let it be. We can’t be together like this.” He gave Sherlock a desperate look. “You know I care about you! A lot! But exactly because of this I can’t give in!”

Yeah. What a surprise. For weeks he had been begging Mycroft to make him his lover, right after suddenly discovering his feelings for his stiff big brother when Mycroft had been in Baker Street. Mycroft had crossed his legs and Sherlock had noticed his delicate ankles above his socks, and his elegant hands, and those long legs had almost literally made him drool…

His brother was a piece of art! Handsome and eloquent and super smart… And totally averse to being with him. Only that he wasn’t really! He was just a coward. Sherlock knew Mycroft desired him, too. He was a master of deductions, and he had seen the signs. And hadn’t Mycroft just confirmed it? He had said he only didn’t want to be with him because he cared too much. What a stupid thing to say. And a stupid idea to bring him chocolates after the flowers hadn’t worked. It had been Molly’s idea. Of course she had not known why he was asking. Probably she was waiting for him to give _her_ chocolates now. Sometimes people were so thick… _He_ wasn’t! He knew Mycroft wanted him and he wouldn’t stop his efforts until Mycroft had finally gone down and dirty with him and was craving for more. But knowing his brother’s stubbornness, that could take him ten years...

“Do you… want them back?” Mycroft asked now, sounding rather shy and not exactly happy.

“No,” Sherlock said, looking down on his feet. “Eat them. Eat them and think of me when you do, and know how much I love you.” There! He turned on his heels and left, and this time he didn’t even stop a cab but walked all the long way home to Baker Street. He almost hoped for someone to try to rob or hurt him because this would be Mycroft's fault, wouldn’t it, and then big brother would really have a reason to feel guilty! Disappointingly, he got home without having been bothered (apart from the usual idiots standing in his way), and he ignored John’s questions about where he had been and if anything was wrong and went straight into his room.

He wouldn’t give up though. Sherlock Holmes never gave up!

°°°

 _Will you go see a film with me?_ ❤ _SH_

_No, sorry, brother. I don’t think this would be a good idea. Take one of your friends with you. Mycroft_

°

 _Do you need help on a case?_ _😘_ _SH_

_Not right now, no. But thank you for asking. I hope you are fine. Mycroft_

_No, I am not. I want to be with you. I will do something bad if you keep refusing it. SH_

_Please, do not try to blackmail me. I care for your wellbeing but I will not have that. Mycroft_

_I hate you. SH_

_No, I love you!_ _💘_ _But you make me so sad._ _😭_ _SH_

_I am very sorry. Please try to understand. It would not be right. Mycroft_

_I don’t care! I want you! SH_

_I know. But it would destroy us because it would never work. Mycroft_

_You can’t know that because you never tried! SH_

He did not get an answer to this text, and when a client showed up while he was still staring at his phone – it was a miracle it didn’t go up in flames – he told him to fuck off and retreated into his bedroom to cry tears of heartbreak and frustration, ignoring John’s and Mrs Hudson’s pleas to open the door and have ‘a nice cup of tea’ and tell them what was wrong with him.

°°°

“Good morning, Lady Smallwood. Where do you think you are going?” Anthea looked at the older woman with her eyes narrowed. The old bitch had not even greeted her but had, without bothering to knock, entered her office to go straight to the closed door of her boss’s. Like she always did. As if she was the bloody Queen! Well, the Queen would certainly be a lot more polite...

Now she turned to give Anthea a condescending look. “I have to talk to _Mycroft_ ,” she said in a superior _how-can-anyone-ask-such-a-stupid-question_ -tone that cried for a slap across her ugly face that would smear this awfully red lipstick all over her wrinkled cheeks and her false teeth and knock her out at best.

And the way she used Mycroft Holmes’ first name! As if they were friends or, gasp, even more! Anthea knew for sure they were not. Sir couldn’t stand her and he always called her Lady Smallwood and shied away when she tried to touch him. “He is _busy_. Make an appointment. With me,” she said, gleefully.

She stood up when the lady just snorted and continued her way after telling her to stick to making tea _, “and a cuppa would be nice now, thank you”,_ knocking at Mycroft's door and entering at once as if she had any right to just burst in there. Anthea, standing in the middle of her office, was fuming. In fact she was close to having steam shoot out of her ears. Sir was too polite to tell this horrible nuisance to fuck off but he would not be happy about this ghastly behaviour. Anthea would have loved to literally kick her out of the office. Arrogant piece of shit, this oh-so-posh lady...

She shrieked when she heard a noise directly behind her. She whirled around to face Mr Holmes’ younger brother, the famous (and infamous) Sherlock Holmes. “Dammit, does nobody knock anymore?!”

He held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Sorry. I saw that the door is open and...”

“Yes, because this bloody witch Smallwood just came in and left it open,” Anthea spat out. “And now she’s in there, trying to get into his pants. Again.”

“What?!” Sherlock’s eyes were wide. And hurt…

What was going on here? Anthea didn’t show her confusion. “Yes. She’s been trying for ages. And one day...”

Sherlock swallowed hard. “You mean she could get him?”

Not in this lifetime… But something made her say, “Who knows? She is very persistent. Rich old woman, head of the MI6… She always gets what she wants, as stupid as it may be with him being gay and she being fifteen years older and looking like his bloody grandmother.” She didn’t mention that the lady was married. Not that Elizabeth Smallwood seemed to care too much about this fact…

Sherlock's jaw clenched and his stunning eyes were suddenly narrowed in a way that made even Anthea wince. “I see,” he mumbled. And the next second he looked very sad and hopeless, and Anthea’s heart melted.

She shook her head. “He doesn’t want her. She annoys him to death. But he has to work with her so he can’t tell her to fu-… pi-… leave him alone.”

Sherlock looked at her for a moment. “Ah,” he said then. “But my brother wouldn’t be very unhappy if she stopped pestering him, I reckon.”

Anthea’s spine started to tingle. “No. Bet he would be very relieved. But of course not if anyone he likes gets into trouble because of this.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about this.” Sherlock suddenly looked around, his eyes suspicious.

“No bugs or cameras here, Sherlock. We are in the safest house in London,” Anthea soothed him.

“Good. That’s good. What did we just talk about?”

Anthea grinned. “Nothing whatsoever.”

“Good. I have to go now.”

“Oh, one moment.” Anthea stalked to her desk and took a piece of paper to scribble a few lines. An address. She had an eidetic memory. Very useful for her job. “Here. Might be helpful. Lose it… afterwards.”

“Much obliged,” Sherlock said when he took it. He neatly folded it and stored it in his coat pocket. “See you.”

“Yes. Be careful. Life is dangerous out there.”

He looked over his shoulder and winked at her. “True. Especially for elderly women.” And with this he was gone.

Anthea sat down again and smiled. It was a smile not many people would have liked. Some people might say that this entire conversation had been insane and the sheer thought of doing something bad to a person whose only fault was it to be an arrogant, nasty, impolite bitch was ridiculous, but those people had never had to endure this offending creature… PA’s were a very sensitive bunch of people. They were loyal and worked hard and did everything to ease their boss’s way, and all they expected for their efforts, apart from the pay cheque, was respect. And some people were not able to understand this, obviously.

When Mycroft and the lady came out of boss’s office together five minutes later, Sir was looking rather exhausted and glad to finally get rid of his uninvited visitor, and Lady Smallwood was obviously sulking because she had still not got what she wanted. Anthea gave her a sweet smile. “Have a nice day, Lady Smallwood.”

The lady shot her a nasty look, her lips pressed together, and then she grabbed Mycroft's arm, or she tried but he took it away, and she made a noise like a disgruntled cat and finally left.

“Would you like tea, sir?” Anthea asked Mycroft. Of course she had not made any for the lady.

“That would be nice. She really wrecks my last nerve,” he mumbled, looking darkly at the closed door as if he feared she would come back any moment.

Anthea could have told him he wouldn’t have to worry about her for much longer but she settled for telling him tea would be ready in just a few minutes and his next meeting would be in an hour. The tall man nodded, his eyes full of worry, and she watched him returning to his office with hanging shoulders, and she hurried to prepare the tea and crossed her fingers, mentally of course, that little brother would do a good job in more than just getting rid of Lady Smallwood, because they definitely were not what Sherlock wanted them to be and Sir definitely needed them to be. But suddenly she had lots of faith in a certain consulting detective.

°°°

Two days passed, and Mycroft's mood didn’t improve one bit. Lady Smallwood came by twice a day, and the last time she literally pushed Anthea to the side in order to reach the door of Sir’s office. Anthea needed all of her usually considerable self-control to not hit her but she couldn’t suppress a smile when the lady stormed out of the office not much later, hissing at her for not telling her that Mycroft was in a meeting. As if she had asked… Anthea even apologised to her with the falsest smile she could muster but as it was to be expected, the boss of the MI6 was not placated. She insulted Anthea’s intelligence, her mother and her sheer existence before she stalked away, her hands balled into fists.

It took Anthea a long time to calm down – it would have been a lot faster if she had known she had seen this woman for the very last time. At this point, she was not sure if Sherlock would do his job. Perhaps he had gotten cold feet. Or forgotten all about it due to getting high or finding something more interesting to do. But probably he was just waiting for the right opportunity, and certainly he had to do some research before he could strike, so she chose to just be patient.

The next morning, she was, as usual, sitting at her computer very early, preparing the reports for Mr Holmes. When he arrived, he greeted her with his usual politeness, but she could sense his worries. It had to have to do with little brother as he was the only person he cared about. Sir wasn’t ill – she had seen his latest medical reports, and nothing at work, not even the bothersome lady, justified his dark mood, so it could only be a matter of the heart.

She was about to bring tea into his office when the door was pushed open. “Lady Smallwood,” Mycroft stammered. “She’s dead.”

“Oh,” Anthea breathed. “That’s… horrible. What happened?”

“Apparently it was a robbery gone wrong.” He told Anthea that Lord Smallwood had been away on a business trip and the lady had been alone in their huge house as their staff wasn’t living with them. Someone had broken in and stolen money and jewellery. Obviously the lady had surprised the man and he had bashed her head in with a golden statuette. He (or possibly she) had not left a trace. No fingerprints, no hairs, no DNA as far as the police could say so far. And of course the government had sent their own people to take care of it just now.

Why had she not been informed about it already? Some people were slipping… “I see,” Anthea said, nodding. “That’s a tragedy.”

Had there been sarcasm in her voice? Had a look or a twitching of her lips given her away? Whatever it had been, Mycroft gasped and stared at her.

She stared back, trying to look calm and innocent, and she was, wasn’t she, and then he nodded. “You had a visitor lately?” His voice was very quiet.

She could have denied it. But it would be very easy for him to find out that his brother had been in Whitehall. And frankly, she knew she was very smart but her boss was even smarter – and highly gifted with these deduction powers his brother already had plenty of. “Maybe,” she settled for, holding her cards close to her chest for the moment.

Mycroft's eyes were all ice and inquisition. “Spoke to him about her?”

“I might have mentioned her.” She tried to shake off the feeling of increased discomfort.

“And he got the impression he’d do me a favour if he...” whispered Mycroft. He looked pale and gaunt now.

“Yes,” she said, firmer now. “And he did. You remember this agent that you and her worked together with lately, Miss Debenham? She might be a very good successor for her.”

Mycroft swallowed, looking at her for a horribly long time without blinking, his eyes not giving anything away. Eventually he nodded. “Yes. I might say a good word for her. Good suggestion.”

Anthea smiled, feeling relieved. “You are surrounded by people who want your best, sir. And who want to prove their value for you. Prove that they are worth having your… affection.” She was not talking about herself and she was sure that he was fully aware of this.

Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment. “I need to go.”

“Sure. I’ll get the car. Baker Street?”

“Baker Street.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Leave us alone, John.” A long-fingered hand was clamping around an umbrella handle.

“Hello to you, too, Mycroft. Isn’t it a wonderful morning? Very early, too. Want tea, maybe?”

“Go, John,” Sherlock said without looking at his flatmate. His heart was racing but he was trying to appear calm and cool. He was also trying to deduce his brother. Impossible as always.

“Great,” the doctor hissed, throwing the newspaper he had been reading onto the floor and storming off.

Mycroft sat down, clinging to his umbrella as if his life depended on it, staring at Sherlock with eyes that gave nothing away. The silence stretched uncomfortably. Sherlock started fidgeting on his chair.

Finally Mycroft asked, “The jewellery?”

Sherlock didn’t deny it. Where would have been the point? He had done this for Mycroft! “Gone. One guy in my homeless network – known him for years, trust him – has a friend, who has a friend, who has a friend… You’re getting the picture. The goods have left England already, about to put into pieces.”

Mycroft nodded. “You’re sure there is nothing to find or trace back to you?”

“Nothing at all. Avoided all street cameras. Heavily masqueraded. Not even Mummy would have recognised me.”

Mycroft took a deep breath. “You would literally do _anything_ to get me, wouldn’t you?”

Sherlock nodded. “Anything at all. You needed to get rid of her. I’m sure there are other, even more qualified people to do her job, without bothering and pestering you. And who needs such a wife? Her husband will be happy. I read a few rumours about him online, saying he likes them young and pretty...”

“Sherlock… Never ever do anything like this again. Promise me!”

Sherlock's shoulders slumped. It hadn’t worked. His brother still didn’t want him… “Yes,” he mumbled, tears filling his eyes. But then Mycroft spoke again and he slowly raised his head.

“You want me so much? Ready to even kill for me?”

Sherlock nodded, wiping his eyes. “Yes. Love you. Need you. If I don’t get you, I’ll never have anyone. It’s you or nobody.”

“It’s dangerous. What do you think John would say?”

“Won’t tell him. He’s a friend but he’s an idiot.”

Mycroft nodded. “I guess… it makes no sense to refuse you anymore. God knows what you will do next if I do… And it seems… you are very sure you want this.”

Sherlock nodded so hard that his head hurt. “Yes! Want this! So much!”

Mycroft got up. “Meet me in my house tonight. Eight. I will be very busy until then. And don’t let John get suspicious!”

Sherlock felt like fainting. Mycroft did indulge him! “You love me!” he whispered.

Mycroft sighed. “Of course I love you. I just thought… Never mind. See you later. And please try to appear normal.” When Sherlock giggled, his lips twitched. “Fine, I see your point. People are used to seeing you in every possible mood. Anyway. You know this has to stay a secret. Forever.”

“I know. Forever. That means you want it to happen more than once, right? Because I want it. Forever.”

“I guess you made your point quite thoroughly,” Mycroft said dryly. “Horrible little brother.”

“Not to you.”

Mycroft finally smiled. “No. I guess not.”

Sherlock closed the distance between them. “Kiss?”

“Here?” Mycroft looked scared again.

“Just a peck?”

“Okay.”

Sherlock reverently put his hands onto Mycroft's chest when he got closer to his brother than he had ever been allowed to, and then they kissed, and it was a million times better than Sherlock had even fantasised before. Mycroft’s lips were soft and delicious and he was so warm and smelled so good. He felt as if he was high when he reluctantly pulled back. No shot of cocaine had ever had such an impact on him. And Mycroft did look a bit dazed when they parted.

“That was… nice. Good bye for now, little brother. I’ll check now that you are really safe.”

“I am.” He had not made any mistakes. If one could solve crimes, he could also commit them, knowing everything he had to avoid. And he would buy flowers again. Not for Mycroft – for Anthea. Without her, he would have never found the way to his brother’s heart.

°°°

Mycroft Holmes was known to be calm, cool, and cold. Anxiety? Non-existent for him, surely. People feared and respected him, thinking he was superior to all of them.

Probably everybody who knew him, except for a certain PA, would have probably not recognised him now that he was pacing through his house, his knees weak, his heart beating in an alarmingly fast rhythm. What was he about to do? How could he even consider this? Not only rewarding Sherlock for **killing** someone in order to convince him of his feelings. But he had said ‘no’ all the times before for a reason, hadn’t he? Because Sherlock was his little brother, whom he had sworn to protect since he had been an angry little baby. How could he let this happen?

But how could he not… Sherlock had proven how seriously he wanted him. He was not searching for experimenting with him and dropping him afterwards, destroying their brotherly relationship for good, making it even more difficult for Mycroft to look after him. Sherlock was in love. With him.

Mycroft had never been in love. He had ‘done it’ with a few men in his youth out of curiosity and once or twice even to gain access to a building that was more or less a fortress or to get important information during his very few years as an agent. Other than this, he had never longed for sexual encounters; there had been nothing wrong with his right hand. He had never chased romantic entanglement but rather avoided it like the plague. His little brother had just been this – his little brother, a complicated young man who had to be saved from himself almost all the time until he finally found a purpose for his life in helping the police with catching criminals and solving cases for private clients if they seemed interesting enough for him.

And then, suddenly, out of nowhere, Sherlock had decided he wanted him, had started batting his eyelashes at him and ‘accidentally’ touching him. Had bought presents for him and suggested going on dates together. Mycroft had been horrified. Especially because all of a sudden he had acknowledged how beautiful his brother was. Of course he had never thought he was ugly, either, he had merely not really noticed his looks. But now he had seen, mostly in his mind’s eye, when he had got rid of baby brother with his clumsy advances, how stunning his eyes were, how special his cheekbones and how seductive his lips. He had dreamt of Sherlock's remarkable bottom and wondered how his muscular thighs would feel under his caressing hands. And he had been deeply ashamed about himself. This could never be right and never work.

But little by little, he had felt his resistance crumbling, had felt sadder and sadder about having to reject Sherlock's desperate attempts at becoming his lover. He had realised he loved Sherlock just as much but he had still fought it, fearing the consequences, not even mainly the legal ones but the ones it would have for him and Sherlock on a personal level if this went wrong as he had thought it had to.

And now this all had cumulated in Sherlock killing Lady Smallwood. They had tried to inform him in the night already but his phone battery had been empty so he had only got to know it when he had come to work, and he had been shocked.

But he couldn’t deny he had also been a tad relieved. The lady had been competent but she had frankly been an awful person. He had known she was ghastly to Anthea and to everybody else who was beneath her (or so she had thought). Perhaps, on some level, he had known at once who had ended her life. So it had not taken more than a tiny bit of a not-quite-right tone in Anthea’s voice to make him realise that she had told Sherlock about Smallwood’s unwanted advances.

During the day, he had been extremely busy, mainly because of the murder. People had been shocked and eager to find the killer. It had been very easy to look at the evidence, offering his opinion on the case. They had nothing. No witnesses, no video material. The murderer had disabled all the alarms and had come and left like a ghost. The murder weapon had remained at the crime scene and of course it had not been touched with bare hands. The killer had not left a hair or the tiniest trace of DNA. Sherlock was off the hook. And now he would soon be here to claim him as his man, and Mycroft had no resistance left, no more arguments why this was a bad idea, no more willpower to refuse what he couldn’t deny wanting as much as Sherlock did.

And when Sherlock appeared at his doorstep, almost ten minutes early, his fearful heart melted at the eagerness in Sherlock's eyes, at his trembling lips, sore from gnawing at them, and at the urgency with which he stumbled into the house, dropping his coat at the door.

They kissed a second later. Sherlock's lips were cold and rough and wet, and Mycroft's arms were around him, holding his little brother, the murderer. When he had realised what Sherlock had done, it had been impossible to not think of his other sibling, sitting in a prison cell for the rest of her life, because she was a psychopath. Only recently Eurus had tried to escape, and only the resistance of the governor against her evil powers had assured she would never be able to pull off such a stunt again. But Sherlock, unaware that he even had a sister (and that’s how it would stay), had not murdered because he could or because of feeling bored. He had murdered to win his heart. He had killed for love. It was still wrong and evil – but Mycroft knew it would be a bit hypocritical for him to judge Sherlock for this. He had secretly ordered to take people out – enemies, traitors… The orders hadn’t been signed by him but it had been his decision or at least suggestion to end these people’s lives. And for Sherlock, Elizabeth Smallwood had been an enemy. Perhaps he had even been jealous of her, as ridiculous this might seem.

But they would leave this behind now, as there was nothing to change about it anymore anyway. As long as nothing linked Sherlock to the crime, they would not mention it again. And if anything came up, Mycroft would pull every string to make sure his brother wouldn’t be convicted. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for Sherlock, just as it was the other way around obviously, and right now, there was only one thing to be done – making love to baby brother.

°°°

It was hard for Sherlock to not constantly pinch himself to make sure he was not imagining this. That his brother was really undressing next to his large bed full of pillows. That Mycroft was really about to have sex with him! It was a dream come true and Sherlock almost stumbled over his own feet when he ripped at his trouser leg, needing to be naked as soon as possible.

And then they were sitting on the bed, next to each other, close, and Sherlock’s arms were around big brother’s neck, kissing him, pushing his tongue into his mouth to taste and catalogue and he just couldn’t be close enough to Mycroft. Warm, deliciously-smelling Mycroft, who had his arms wrapped tightly around his waist. Both naked and, in Sherlock's case, already heavily aroused.

 _Please don’t let him change his mind_ , Sherlock begged a higher power that he didn’t believe in while he urged Mycroft to lie down so he could straddle him and pin him to the mattress and explore and devour him as if there was no tomorrow. And who knew if there would be a tomorrow – at least a tomorrow that would allow him to do this. And now that he was having, quite literally, a taste of what being intimate with Mycroft was like, a tomorrow without this didn’t seem possible anymore.

He covered his brother's face with kisses, tweaking his nipples, making his moist cock rub against Mycroft's, which was now rapidly swelling as well, which was making Sherlock incredibly proud. _He_ was doing this to his brother, the Iceman, the Untouchable, the Unapproachable.

Sherlock wanted to do everything at once – suck his brother's big cock, have his own sucked by him, take the pink penis up his arse and fuck the living daylights out of Mycroft. In the end none of this happened as he came all over Mycroft's groin when a long-fingered hand was wrapped around their members and stroked up and down rather shyly.

With a curse he collapsed on his brother, but his frustration ceased at once when Mycroft rubbed his back soothingly, telling him he was a beautiful boy and would be ready again soon and they had time. It was only then that he realised he was seriously granted with what he had longed for – his brother's affection and sexual attention. Smiling and finally allowing himself to enjoy this light-headed post-orgasmic feeling, he let himself be petted and stroked by the man whom he loved so much and who was now clearly showing that he loved him, too.

*****

Nothing else existed. Nothing but beautiful baby brother with his exquisite skin, his tasty lips, his small dark nipples that seemed to jump into his mouth when he carefully sucked them. Nothing but Sherlock, who was vibrating with energy and whose legs caressed his back while Mycroft was taking him apart with his mouth and hands.

As he had expected, Sherlock had been ready again in record time. Mycroft had not come yet, but he knew that when he did, it would be an explosion. The guilty feelings had not gone but he had pushed them into the very back of his mind. They didn’t matter. Sherlock wanted this and he would have never stopped trying to get it. And Mycroft couldn’t deny he was flattered by his little brother’s obsession with him. He wished Sherlock had not taken to such measures to convince him but he wasn’t blind to the ironic fact that if he had done what he was doing now a few days earlier, Elizabeth Smallwood would still be alive. But frankly, this didn’t matter anymore either. What was done was done. He was sure Sherlock would never be convicted of this murder and he was also sure Sherlock wouldn’t drop him anytime soon or suffer from this experience in any way. Sherlock was obviously very happy right now, judging by the way he was stammering his name and pulling at his ears and pawing at everything he could reach, and Sherlock's happiness had always been his priority after all. And yes – he was happy, too.

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock soon begged to be entered when Mycroft had licked his hole for a few minutes. He had avoided taking his cock into his mouth as he had feared Sherlock would come at once again. But the stimulation of the other side seemed to turn on baby brother just as much, and soon Mycroft was sinking into his tight heat – with the help of some lubricant – and Sherlock was clinging to him, mumbling obscenities, urging him to start fucking him in earnest. Mycroft would have loved to take more time for exploring their sexuality now that they had, after all, come to this point, but he knew that asking Sherlock for patience would have met deaf ears. And he supposed Sherlock thought that he might change his mind in the morning so he wanted to get as much out of this experience as he could. Mycroft knew he would not do anything like this, though. They had gone this far – there was no way back anymore.

And so he fucked his brother into the mattress after shallowly thrusting into him to give virgin Sherlock time to get adjusted to it, and he felt younger than he had in years, more alive than ever and grateful that Sherlock's persistence had made this happen.

Sherlock came before him, shooting his seed between their entangled bodies, and his arse clamped down on him so hard when he climaxed with a howl that would have made any horny wolf jealous that Mycroft followed him instantly, pumping his seed into his little brother’s canal. Panting and sinking down on Sherlock in a way that would hopefully not be too uncomfortable for him, he waited for the guilt to make an appearance again, but it did not come.

Sherlock regained his ability to speak first. “That was awesome.”

“It was.” No use in denying it.

“We will do it again, won’t we?”

“As often as you wish, and in every way you wish.” Why had he even bothered to protest in the first place? Hadn’t Sherlock always got what he wanted from him?

“Good. And if you need anyone else to be killed, just let me know.”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft squeezed little brother’s waist.

“I’m just kidding.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No, I'm not. Whoever threatens us or makes your life miserable should be very careful.” Sherlock sounded pretty pleased with himself.

Mycroft couldn’t refrain from asking, “What if your good doctor finds out about us and threatens to give us away?”

“He won’t. Won’t find out and if it does happen, he won’t say a word. But if your scenario comes true, well, I’m afraid he will find an unhappy ending.”

Somehow the cold shiver that these words sent down his spine felt pretty good. “You’re evil, little brother.”

“I know. I’m a high-functioning sociopath.”

With a very soft spot for his big brother. Well, there were worse fates in life. “Bad boy.”

“The worst. My cock is getting hard again. Round three?”

Mycroft groaned and then grinned when Sherlock chuckled and pinched his arse. Worse fates indeed…

**Epilogue**

“Good morning.” The blonde woman entered Anthea’s office with a smile after having been called in.

“Good morning, Miss Debenham. Mister Holmes is awaiting you.” The designated new head of the MI6 had called and asked for an appointment.

Belinda Debenham was tall, lean and usually not shy. She had been an agent for several years, and a very good one. A bright, ambitious woman with many talents. One of them was politeness. “These flowers are beautiful,” she remarked, and she sounded honest.

And why ever not? Anthea looked at the gorgeous roses with pride. “Thank you. They are from a very grateful man.” The man who had caused the hickey on Mycroft Holmes’ neck. Who would have thought the great consulting detective would ever send her flowers? But then – who would have thought he would suck bruises into Sir’s skin and make him smile as if he had won the lottery? A happy boss meant a happy Anthea, so much was sure.

“I bet,” Belinda said. “From what I’ve heard, you deserve all the flowers and gratitude in the world.”

Anthea beamed at her. “How nice of you to say that. Would you like a cup of tea? Or coffee?”

“Coffee would be lovely, thank you.”

“I will bring it, just go in now. He doesn’t bite.”

Belinda smiled. “I know I owe him my new position and I need to thank him. Or… do I owe it to _you_ perhaps?”

“Ah, I might have mentioned your name but it was his decision to recommend you.”

“Oh, I knew it! You need to do me the favour of going to lunch with me. How about today, twelve-thirty?”

“It will be my pleasure.” The two women shared a long look and a very deep smile, and Anthea was pretty excited when she hurried to make coffee for her boss and his visitor. A really lovely woman for sure.

When she sat down again after bringing the tray into Sir’s office and having received ‘thank you’s’ and smiles by both of them, she thought that sometimes everything just was like it should be. And should anyone seriously bother her boss again and above all treat her like rubbish, she would know who to turn to – Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and dragon slayer.

🗡The End 🐉

  
  



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